


Persuasion

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crime-Fighting Partners, Deadpool Catches Feelings, Deadpool Thought Boxes, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentioned Gwen Stacy, Mentioned Lizard, Mentions of Cable, Past-Cable/Deadpool, Spideypool - Freeform, Wounded Wade, unmasking, white box - Freeform, yellow box - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 08:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Wade is like a bag of broken glass and Peter must use his powers of persuasion. No plot. Just some angst, some fluff, and a little porn. I’ll just . . . leave this here. . . . ::slinks away::</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Spoilers for Spidey’s origin story.

[White]

{Yellow}

_Deadpool_

 

The pain was, of course, incredible.

 

Deadpool could barely hear himself think over it. He simply laid on the ground in front of the condemned apartment building—so many of those in the city that never slept, and yet the homeless population was _booming_ —trying to breathe his way through till his powers kicked on or in and healed him. For the moment, anyway, the Lizard was gone, back into the sewers, and Spidey was probably gone, too. Chasing after the enraged and violent mutant.

 

At least, that’s what Deadpool assumed for a few seconds until Spidey hove into his view, and knelt next to Deadpool in one fluid, graceful motion. Surprise and agony robbed Deadpool of his ability to speak, for a moment, but that was fine, since Spidey _always_ had something to say.

 

It was one of his many irresistibly sexy qualities, as far as Deadpool was concerned.

 

“You’re not doin’ too good, there, Wilson,” Spidey noted drily, not even breathing hard, hands on his narrow hips as he leaned over and stared down at Deadpool.

 

“Ah . . . ‘tis naught but a flesh wound,” Deadpool muttered around a hissed breath that felt like fucking _agony_ and _tasted_ like O-neg. He clutched at his right side—there were a couple ribs poking into some organs, one of which felt like it was his right lung—and wheezed a laugh at Spidey’s prissy little noise of annoyance. “I’m aces, Baby Boy.”

 

“Hardly, champ, inappropriate _Monty Python_ references aside,” Spidey huffed, reaching out to Deadpool slowly, so as not to startle. (He’d learned the hard way not to make a lot of sudden movements around a wounded Deadpool. It’d been _weeks_ before Deadpool had stopped apologizing for throwing Spidey into a brick wall right after fighting a small legion of Chitauri with the Avengers. Deadpool had been almost fatally wounded near the end of that delightful little fuck-fest. Spidey had come up behind him _way_ too quietly . . . as a result, he’d made a very _deep_ dent in that wall.) He touched the shifting, pureed right side of Deadpool’s torso, making another noise that had nothing to do with annoyance when the mercenary groaned pathetically. “ _Jesus_ , Wade.”

 

“ _Monty_ . . . _fuck_ . . . _Python_ references are _always_ . . . appropriate, Spidey,” Deadpool panted, looking up into the hero’s— _his_ hero’s—lenses. “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.”

 

“Yes, eventually. But for now . . . you’re hurt more than a _little_ ,” Spidey sighed and leaned closer. So close that Deadpool could smell the faintest scent of sweat and cheap fabric softener. “Gonna lift you up, now, buddy, okay?”

 

“That’s not necess— _unh_!” Deadpool grunted as Spidey quickly, but carefully scooped him up like he wasn’t two hundred-plus pounds of prime man-meat. But his splintered, broken, and partially pureed ribs shifted agonizingly nonetheless, and for a few seconds, he blacked out.

 

When he came to, Spidey was wall-walking— _straight up the wall_ of the condemned building—still carrying Deadpool bridal-style. The mercenary closed his eyes against vertigo. He doubted Spidey would find it suave if Deadpool puked up recycled enchiladas all over them both. “Fuck, it’s disturbing when you do this. You know that, right?”

 

“You may have mentioned it, once or twice,” Spidey said sanguinely, not even remotely bothered or winded. As he stepped onto the roof, Deadpool registered the switch in gravity’s pull and risked opening his eyes. In the far eastern distance, dawn was just touching the horizon, its lavender-pink-gold fingers stroking the sky like a lazy lover.

 

Spidey stopped walking, staring at that first hint of morning for a moment, before sighing and looking at Deadpool expectantly. “So. Where’m I taking you, Wade?”

 

Deadpool blinked. “Whah?”

 

Spidey grinned—his every expression was _ridiculously_ easy to read, even with the mask—and tilted his head to the left, studying Deadpool. “Got a safe-house or lair you don’t mind me knowing about? _Spidey’s Quick-Cab_ _Service_ is yours for the next little while.”

 

“I—” Deadpool blinked again, wishing he wasn’t in so much damn pain so he could _think_ clearly. (Even though whenever he was injured badly enough, the Boxes skedaddled till he was done healing. In fact, once Deadpool had first realized this, he’d started self-harming and unaliving himself just to get the occasional blessed silence.

 

Though he hadn’t been doing that for a while. Not since he got started teaming up with Spidey six months ago, opening cans of whup-ass on the baddies. . . .)

 

“Don’t worry, Wade,” Spidey was saying solemnly, his lovely, soothing tenor becoming even more so. “I’m pretty good at keeping a secret _secret_. I just wanna make sure you’re someplace safe while you heal up. And that you’re not followed to wherever you need to go.”

 

Deadpool frowned. “ _Nobody_ gets the drop on ol’ Deadpool, Spidey-britches.”

 

“Not saying they do,” Spidey’s smile was audible and Deadpool wondered wistfully if it was as nice as his voice. He had a feeling it was. “But you’re in no shape to go stealth-mode. You’re bleeding and wheezing and your right side feels like a bag of broken glass.” Spidey’s smile-voice faded into something quiet and uncertain. “If you _want_ . . . I could take you back to _my_ , um . . . lair. To rest up ‘til you’re ready to go to your own.”

 

Eyes widening in a way Deadpool was glad Spidey couldn’t see—that, as well as the rest of his fugly mug—he looked off to the east, as well. The direction of his place, as it turned out.

 

“Listen, Spidey, you can just leave me here, and I’ll be fine in an hour or two—” he began, uncomfortable with Spidey knowing where he lived. Not because he was ashamed of his place, but because . . . he’d never shown _anyone_ where he lived, let alone his idol, his hero, his—

 

Spidey.

 

“Just leave me here, kiddo,” Deadpool mumbled lamely. “It’s copacetic. Really.”

 

“Not happenin’, Wilson,” Spidey said flatly. “I don’t wanna risk Dr. Connors coming back to make sure he did you in properly, or someone else taking advantage of you in your . . . compromised state.” He sighed and smiled again, the mask wrinkling around that wide, probably-gorgeous grin. “Looks like you’re coming home with me.”

 

[He’s nucking futs,] White noted quietly, distantly, like a far radio station just barely tuning in. Deadpool groaned. His eternal companions were back a lot sooner than usual.

 

{Futs-er than us, even, if he’s trusting a _mercenary_ with the location of his lair or Spidey-cave,} Yellow agreed brightly, but also distantly. {I _really_ like him! _And_ his cute little ass!}

 

[Yeah . . . he’s not bad. For a do-gooder. And his ass _is_ worthy of _at least_ ten distinct forms of poetry. Why didn’t you pay better attention in high school English?]

 

“Glad you guys could drop in. Useful, as always,” Deadpool muttered, rolling his eyes as Spidey marched off to the northeast. The other man paused at the edge of the roof and looked at Deadpool questioningly. Quirking a limp smile of his own, despite the pain, which was already diminishing some, Deadpool shrugged and held on tight to his hero. “Just the Boxes saying _hello_. Apparently they like you a _lot_. You _and_ your ass.”

 

At this admission, Deadpool could see Spidey’s brows lift in surprise and curiosity. “Uh . . . the Boxes?” he asked, mimicking Deadpool’s capital-B when he said the word, then stepped off the roof so suddenly, Deadpool screamed like a little bitch as Spidey shot a web to a distant building and they were fucking _flying_. “What Boxes?”

 

By the time Deadpool caught his breath, they were out of the lower west side and making their way through Midtown.

 

“Baby Boy . . . lemme tell ya a little secret ‘bout Daddy Pool,” Deadpool wheezed, laughing. At least for a few moments, till they free-fell from the top of a skyscraper. Then the world went black from a combination of agony and the expectation of more of the same when they hit ground. . . .

 

When he next opened his eyes, he was in a small, dimly-lit bedroom on a horribly uncomfortable futon, and staring up into beautiful, concerned green eyes in a peachy, wholesome, boy-next-door face. Thick, floppy chestnut hair flopped floppily over a clear brow, only to be absently pushed back as the boy leaning over him leaned even closer, his brows furrowing.

 

“Heyya, Wade,” he said gently, smiling. “Feeling better?”

 

{ _Wow_ ,} Yellow and Deadpool’s heart sighed in a way neither ever had before. {The smile’s even _more gorgeous_ than the voice. . . .}

 

[We’re a goner,] White agreed morosely, despairingly. [This is _bad_.]

 

“S-Spidey?” Deadpool croaked, trying to sit up. His side still ached, but not nearly as horribly as it had before. But the boy looking at him with such breath-taking concern held him down easily, his strength as implacable as it was obviously effortless.

 

{Oh, _fuck_! He’s so _strong_! Stronger than _Cable_ , even!} Yellow practically swooned in Deadpool’s psyche.

 

[Nathan Summers can eat a cock,] White hissed, his hatred of their former . . . _former_ as virulent as it’d ever been. [Or, even better: a _Glock_.]

 

“No sitting up for you. Not till Dr. Spidey says so,” the boy ordered wryly, but firmly. His right hand still rested on the center of Deadpool’s chest—his _bare chest_ . . . and it was then that Deadpool noticed his boots and weapons had been removed, too, leaving him in his leather pants and slightly grubby, fuschia _Hello Kitty_ socks—which had been gauzed and bandaged to a fare-thee-well. But it was the thought of Spidey having seen and _still seeing_ his messed up skin, seeing and _touching_ it, that caused Deadpool to blush . . . not the socks.

 

_Hope he didn’t lose his dinner, bandaging my ugly-ass hide up._

 

{Hey—at least it wasn’t our _face_ , amirite?} Yellow asked cheerfully.

 

[He’s _Spider-Man_. He just spent the night repeatedly saving our ass from a giant, mutant lizard-man. He’s seen worse skin than ours.] White seemed fantastically unfazed by the thought of Spidey seeing their scarred, pocked skin. Deadpool looked from Spidey’s squared, fine-fingered hand, to his face . . . his lovely, unspoiled face. And those fucking _eyes_. . . .

 

Deadpool couldn’t stop staring, despite White’s grumbling and Yellow’s melodramatic groans.

 

{Dude—like, _seriously_. Stop gazing into his eyes like a love-struck teenage girl . . . you have _no_ game whatsoever! It’s embarrassing!}

 

“Are you alright, Wade?” Spidey was asking worriedly, that smile fading. “Is there something I can get for you? Water? Uh—I also have some frozen pizza . . . and, uh, Vicodin, if the pain’s still bad. . . .”

 

“No, no, the pain’s not bad at all,” Deadpool hastened to say, in the hopes that that smile would make a comeback. And it did, just a bit. Just enough for Yellow to whisper: {Fuck, we just lost _all_ our cool-points and got caught up in the game, yo. . . .}

 

Deadpool didn’t even know what that _meant_ , exactly, but found that he agreed whole-heartedly.

 

“You’re,” Deadpool began hesitantly, uncertain how he could finish that sentence without freaking Spidey out. _Beautiful? Sweet? Too good and pure for this world? A dream in human-arachnid form?_ “You’re, uh . . . not wearing your mask.”

 

Spidey blushed prettily and looked down, his brow furrowing again. “Yeah . . . I figured that since I brought you here, you might as well know what I look like. It’s not like you wouldn’t be able to suss it out just from knowing where I live. After all . . . you’re Deadpool.”

 

[Good point,] White said with grudging respect.

 

{He’s so fucking _pretty_!} Yellow squealed, apropos of nothing and everything. {Can we keep him?!}

 

“Yeah . . . I am.” Deadpool’s mouth quirked in a crooked half-smile as he did his best to ignore Yellow’s fangirling. “So . . . what’re you, like, fourteen? Fifteen? They’re turning out superheroes _young_ , these days, Jailbait.”

 

Spidey grinned, showing off perfect teeth, whiter than an ad for toothpaste and happiness. His eyes met Deadpool’s almost archly. “I’ll have you know I’m nineteen and a half.”

 

{Legal, but he doesn’t _look_ it? Oooh, Daddy _like_!} Yellow perved enthusiastically, causing Deadpool and White to groan silently and wince.

 

“How old are _you_?” Spidey challenged playfully. Deadpool shrugged, but hesitated.

 

“Thirty-eight . . . and sixteen months.”

 

Spidey looked surprised, and Deadpool felt his shoulders hunch defensively. “That’s not _that_ old.”

 

“Did I say anything?”

 

“You were _thinkin’_ it. _Real_ loud.”

 

Spidey laughed, light and merry, the hand that was still on Deadpool’s scarred chest, stroking absently, fondly, no trace of revulsion or pity.

 

[Huh,] White exhaled softly, obviously surprised and somewhat confused. Yellow was busy purring like a kitten under that callused, but gentle touch. Meanwhile, Deadpool was doing his best to fight off what promised to be a real _rager_.

 

“It’s the face, isn’t it?” Spidey asked, still giggling a bit. Deadpool turned red, wondering if Spidey could read minds. But the boy went on innocently. “Gwen, says it’s like a billboard advertising every thought and feeling I have.”

 

[ _Gwen_ ,] White repeated flatly, in a way that unsettled even Deadpool, malicious intent dripping from every letter. Yellow wasn’t very much better.

 

{Uh-oh . . . is Yellow gonna have to _choke_ a bitch?}

 

“Uh, Gwen?” Deadpool asked as nonchalantly as he could. Spidey’s smile turned equal parts exasperated and fond.

 

“Yeah. She’s been my best friend since I was fifteen.” A little melancholy crept into that pretty smile and Deadpool had to fight not to reach up and brush his thumb across those soft, sweet-looking lips. “Since . . . since just before I, um, got my powers.”

 

Deadpool’s brows shot up, Spidey’s tempting lips and best-friend-Gwen forgotten for the moment. Instead, he was wondering if someone had done a Weapon X Program on _his Spidey_. Of course, if that was the case, some motherfuckers _somewhere_ were gonna pay. And pay. And _pay_. “You mean you haven’t _always_ been a mutant?”

 

Spidey licked his lips—occasioning another groan from Yellow—nervously. “No. There was an . . . accident. Of sorts. Long story short: I got bit by a radioactive spider and the next day I could do . . . the things I do.”

 

He shrugged slender shoulders and it was then that Deadpool noticed that, except for the mask, Spidey was still in his costume. And it looked even better on his leanly-muscled, compact frame now that Deadpool had a _face_ —and _what_ a face!—to go with that sexy, toned little body.

 

Spidey was blushing again and Deadpool wanted nothing more than to find out how far down that fetching pink went. Then taste it.

 

“Hey,” he found himself saying breathlessly as Spidey’s blush began to fade, “What’s your, uh, name, kiddo? Since you already know mine and have from day one.”

 

Spidey’s eyes met Deadpool’s and he felt as if the boy was _truly_ meeting his gaze despite the barrier of the mask. It made him both uncomfortable and brave. He wanted to unmask, too, even though he knew it’d send Spidey running and likely give the poor kid nightmares for weeks.

 

“I’m Peter,” Spidey said quietly, eyes wide and anxious, face gone slightly pale. “Peter Parker.”

 

Deadpool’s shock was powerful enough that in spite of Spidey’s— _Peter’s_ —restraining hand, he sat up. The creaking futon protested louder than Peter did. “ _You’re_ the Peter Parker who takes those kick-ass pics of Spider-Man for the _Bugle_?”

 

Peter smiled, pleased and shy at the same time. “That’s me. Uh . . . yeah. I basically get paid to take selfies.” He laughed self-deprecatingly.

 

“ _Fuck_ , you’re talented! I have your photos of Spidey all over my place!” Deadpool gushed, then blushed. His bedroom was a literal spank-bank of Spidey action-shots. And if someone were to run a black-light over _any_ _one_ of those sloppily-clipped photos . . . it’d look like the Milky Way Galaxy. “I mean. You know. For the aesthetic.”

 

Peter’s eyes were shining. “You . . . really think I’m talented?”

 

“ _Crazy_ talented, Baby Boy!”

 

{Please stop gushing? _Please_? While he still thinks we’re marginally cool?}

 

[I think that train has already sailed. . . .]

 

_Shut up, you two, unless you think you can do this any better!_

 

{Well. . . .}

 

[Don’t get wrapped around this boy’s pretty little pinky,] White reminded him dourly. [You have to be realistic about this. Once he sees our face . . . that’ll be all she wrote. Literally. The author doesn’t know how they're even gonna _write_ that passage, but it’ll probably be painful. For you and Yellow, anyway.]

 

{Oh, like you’re not attached to Spidey-Peter just as much as we are!}

 

[I believe firmly in keeping my own counsel,] White all but growled, to which Yellow huffed. But Deadpool noticed that White hadn’t exactly _denied_ its attachment, even if _Yellow_ missed that interesting fact.

 

“Wade . . . Deadpool. . . .” Peter looked down for a moment, then back up. In the yellow lamplight, his eyes seemed as gold as they were green. And they positively _glowed_. “If you wanted to—no pressure, of course—you could . . . unmask around me. I mean, don’t feel obligated! But . . . I can’t imagine you’re comfortable in that mask all the time and . . . I guess . . . yeah.”

 

That peachy skin took on another flush that Deadpool found both entrancing and telling. He wanted to cup Peter’s face in his hands—feel that smooth, clear skin slide against his palms—and pull the boy into a kiss. One that he suddenly _knew_ Peter wouldn’t mind.

 

Or, at least, one Peter _thought_ he wouldn’t mind. Peter clearly had no idea what he was trying to get himself into. No idea what was under the mask.

 

Deadpool thought it best for them both that that not change.

 

“Look, Pete . . . I’m . . . real touched and honored that you unmasked for me, but . . . I think you’re better off not seeing the shit-show I hide under this mask. You think my _chest_ looks bad? My face is even worse. I’m . . . not pretty.”

 

Peter frowned, and even _that_ expression was absolutely lovely. “I don’t think your chest looks bad at all, Wade,” he said softly, his fingers clenching just slightly, callused tips dragging briefly on Deadpool’s crepey-dry, sensitive skin. For a moment, the constant, low-grade pain he always felt in every inch of his epidermis was eclipsed by a shiver-causing tingle that went straight to his dick. That slowly fading rager suddenly flared back to alarming life.

 

Then Peter’s hand lifted, reaching up to cup Deadpool’s face almost tenderly, but making no move to remove the mask. Not that Deadpool _could_ have stopped Peter were the boy inclined to push, but he would’ve been obligated to _try_ , even though Spidey could literally break him in two without working up a decent sweat.

 

“I think you’re _gorgeous_ , Wade,” Peter murmured, small and breathless sounding. But his gaze was steady and open. “Strong and fast and beautiful. And . . . sexy.”

 

Deadpool’s eyes widened so much, he thought they’d fall out of their sockets. “Baby Boy—I don’t . . . I mean, I _can’t_. . . .” he trailed off, practically choking on his surprise and dismay.

 

Hurt flashed across Peter’s pretty, easy-to-read face and he let his hand fall away, then eased off the edge of the futon, standing at slump-shouldered attention. “No, I get it. I mean, I _understand_. I wasn’t trying to . . . I mean, I _do_ _want_ —but I’m not trying to _pressure_ you. I didn’t say those things to . . . I dunno. Butter you up.” That hurt frown became a hurt fake-smile. “Unless it’s working, haha.”

 

(Peter actually _said_ _haha_ , instead of laughing. It was the most painful quasi-laugh Deadpool had ever heard.) “Peter—”

 

“I said what I said because it’s _true_ ,” the boy continued solemnly, as if imparting a dearly-held truth to an unbeliever. “I’ve never known _anyone_ like you. You’re . . . magnetic and vibrant and the way you _move_. . . it’s kinetic.”

 

That little sigh was reminiscent of Yellow, who was still sitting in the back of Deadpool’s brain in shocked silence. White, too, was suspiciously silent.

 

Deadpool was on his own and at a loss for words for the first time in years. He opened his mouth, not knowing what would come out. At first, _nothing_ did. Then he was chuckling bitterly.

 

“Hey, it’s always nice to hear from a fan, Peter Parker, but . . . whatever romantic notions you’ve got in that pretty little head of yours, you’d best shit-can ‘em. Because there’s _homely_ , and there’s what _I_ got, and trust me . . . my face ain’t fit for general consumption. Ain’t for the faint of heart.” Deadpool sighed, shaking his head. But he went on even as Peter opened his mouth to gainsay him. “Really, Spider-Man, thanks for the assist, but maybe it’s time I go.”

 

That’s what Deadpool _said_ , and Peter’s face fell.

 

But when Deadpool made no move to actually _leave_ —didn’t even twitch or look at the bedroom door or the open, beckoning window not six feet away—Peter bit his lip and perched uncertainly on the edge of the futon again.

 

“Do you . . . really think I’m pretty, Wade?” he asked reluctantly, still biting that lush lower lip. Deadpool stifled a moan and tried to look away. Tried. Failed. In the end, he was just grateful that the mask allowed him to stare as unabashedly as he wanted. Unfortunately, the rager was making a valiant attempt to stand straight up, and if Peter glanced south of the border, he couldn’t help but notice.

 

“Baby Boy, your face is a _masterpiece_. And your body is _bangin’_ ,” Deadpool exhaled helplessly, hanging his head in utter consternation. “You’re more beautiful than I imagined you’d be . . . and I’ve, uh, _imagined_ a _lot_.” His laugh was a short, sharp bark of sound. “And to top it off, you’re sweet, smart, _and_ funny. And you get my pop-culture references at least 98% of the time. Which is unfair, if you ask me, because how the _hell_ am I supposed to resist all _that_?”

 

“M-Maybe . . . maybe you’re not meant to,” Peter said, placing his hand on Deadpool’s chest again. Deadpool gasped at the near-electric shock that coursed through him. Peter leaned close again, thick, dark lashes shuttering those greeny-gold eyes for a few moments, before they focused on Deadpool again, direct and deadly.

 

“Peter. . . .” _this can’t happen_ , Deadpool was going to say—really, he _was_ . . . but Peter’s _eyes_ were so. . . .

 

“I . . . I would like very much to kiss you, Wade Wilson,” Peter said in a husky, uneven voice, swallowing audibly, his Adam’s-apple nervously bobbing.

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Deadpool said, even as he found himself leaning toward Peter.

 

{Best. Idea. EVER!} Yellow crowed giddily, bouncing all over Deadpool’s psyche like a manic puppy. {Lay on the ol’ _razzmatazz_!}

 

[Right . . . because it’s not as if we have to pull the mask halfway up our messed-up face to do _that_. Resulting in him seeing just how bad our face _really_ _is_.]

 

 _White, you’re ever the voice of reason . . . shut the fuck up_ , Deadpool thought flippantly, but desolately. Because when the Box was right, it was right. And it was _always_ right.

 

“It’s a great idea, Wade. Trust me.” Peter grinned mischievously, irresistibly. “I’m a scientist.”

 

Then, before Deadpool could respond, Peter was reaching for the edge of the mask, fingers plucking at it for a second before pushing it slowly up, from Deadpool’s neck, to his chin, and over his jaw, which tightened reflexively. Then it was over his chapped, scarred lips, which he licked, and finally it rested on the bridge of his nose.

 

Peter stared at Deadpool, who held his breath—just like the Boxes, for once, held their peace—while the boy looked his fill, his feather-light fingertips brushing across Deadpool’s jaw and chin, to trace his lips with both tenderness and reverence. His pupils weren’t contracting in revulsion, but dilating, until only the thinnest ring of green remained around them.

 

“I won’t push it up any higher until you’re ready for me to, Wade,” he promised, voice gone solemn again. Deadpool shivered under that exploratory, incidentally teasing touch. He resisted the urge to nip those fingers and suck them into his mouth.

 

“What if,” Deadpool was the one to swallow, this time, as his hands settled, of their own accord, on Peter’s waist. He could feel the _heat_ baking off Peter, and if the boy was just ninety-eight-point-six, Deadpool would smile and eat the damn futon. “What if I’m _never_ _ready_? What if . . . what if _this_ is all I can give you?”

 

Peter was leaning closer, eyes half-lidded and on their way to being shut as he angled his head. Deadpool automatically tilted his own head to accommodate Peter.

 

“I think you’re underestimating your strength of character, Wade . . . underestimating the greatness and generosity of your spirit. But that’s okay,” Peter murmured, his breath warm and humid on Deadpool’s lips as he lingered just outside of their kiss. His hand dropped down to rest over Deadpool’s heart and he hummed as pectoral muscles jumped under his light touch. “I can believe in you deeply enough for both of us.”

 

“ _Fuck_ , Baby Boy,” Deadpool breathed incredulously, almost despairingly, because _really_ , though . . . how _was_ he supposed to resist _all this_? “Who _are_ you?”

 

“I’m . . . _yours_ ,” Peter whispered as their lips touched, then separated a moment later. “For as long as you want me.”

 

“Hope ya don’t got any plans for the next eternity, then, Petey.” Deadpool's voice was a muffled growl, as he claimed the boy’s lips in a hard, demanding kiss that Peter _mmphed!_ into before he cupped Deadpool’s angular jaw in his tender hands and slowly, patiently gentled the kiss, his tongue teasing Deadpool’s even as it still pillaged and plundered Peter’s mouth.

 

The boy tasted like apples and peanut butter. Like a fucking _Lunchables_.

 

{Oh. Em. Gee! He’s fucking _delicious, too?_!} Yellow thrilled deliriously. {MINE!}

 

[Why is he _doing_ this?] White wondered almost plaintively. [What does he _want_ with us? He’s seen our face—part of it, anyway—why hasn’t he shown us the door?]

 

 _I don’t know_ , Deadpool replied. _Maybe he really_ is _nucking futs. But I’m not looking this gift horse in his sweet, pretty mouth._

 

Then he and the Boxes were swept up in a kiss that made the one at the end of _Princess Bride_ look like a grudging peck on the cheek.

 

It went on for so long, even the Boxes began to need air. Deadpool was certain that, between the lack of oxygen and all the blood in his body breaking land-speed records to fill his cock, he was going to pass out again. At least until he groaned loud and long—breaking the kiss—when Peter’s hesitant hand settled on his hard-on and squeezed questioningly.

 

“This okay?” he asked hopefully, panting on Deadpool’s lips. “I mean—are you . . . am I hurting you? Are your ribs still—”

 

“Fuck my _ribs_ , Petey-boy, and hurt me some more,” Deadpool hitched, his hands sliding down and around to Peter’s _divine_ ass—Yellow was squealing again about dreams coming true and White was mumbling something about the other shoe dropping—and helping himself to a firm double-handful. But the boy still looked doubtful. “ _Please_ , I promise I’m all better, just . . . _don’t stop_. . . .”

 

“I—I _won’t_ , I _promise_.” Peter moaned sweetly as Deadpool did some squeezing, too. “Oh, Wade . . . Wade, I _want_. . . .”

 

“Tell me, Baby Boy, and it’s _yours_.” Deadpool would have cut out his right kidney with a rusty metal spork if Peter asked him to. “ _All_ yours.”

 

“I—” Deadpool could practically hear the blush. “I really want to be _inside you_. I want . . . I wanna _fuck_ you. Wait, no,” Peter mumbled suddenly, and Deadpool went still, his heart in his throat. Yellow whined and White sullenly delivered a thoroughly miserable little I-told-you-so. Then Peter was correcting himself earnestly. “I _really_ wanna _make love_ to you. I wanna feel you around me, hot and tight and powerful, clutching at me like you never wanna let me go. I wanna hear you moan my name over and over as I push into you, until you come from just that—without either of us touching your cock—because it’s _so_ _good_.”

 

Then Peter made a hungry, rough, _impatient_ sound. “But I also wanna touch your cock, like, a _lot_.”

 

Deadpool, pleasantly surprised and once more at a loss for words—the Boxes were, too; this was a night for stymieing his personal demons/frenemies—nodded eagerly, pulling Peter down half on top of him. The boy went with an _oof!_ and a chuckle, wriggling around till his body was more fully on top of Deadpool’s, his dick hot and hard on Deadpool’s thigh. “You can touch it all you want, Petey. You can do _anything_ you want with my dick _and_ with me. And on me. And to me. And _in_ _me_. . . .”

 

Peter made that amazing, hungry sound again, and it, of course, went straight to Deadpool’s aching cock, which was fighting the leather of his pants to try and cleave to his abdomen. As if reading Deadpool’s frustrated body, Peter straddled the mercenary’s thighs and carefully worked down the red leather trousers far enough that Deadpool could kick them the rest of the way off. They both laughed a little at the loud, warning noises coming from Peter’s creaky futon.

 

Then Peter was kneeling between Deadpool’s spread legs, hands placed almost possessively on Deadpool’s muscular thighs. He ran them up and down, not seeming to mind the scars, his eyes locked on Deadpool’s cock, where it indeed hugged his abdomen and leaked pre-come steadily.

 

“ _Mm_ , that’s . . . you’re _so_ . . . fuck, _Wade_. . . .” Peter stole another kiss, wet and wanton, but much less controlled than the last one. Then he seemed to need to catch his breath, and leaned his forehead against Deadpool’s, his breathing loud in the tiny bedroom. “I’ve been wanting to be _exactly_ _here_ for so long. Now that I _am_ . . . I wanna do _everything_ with you before you change your mind.”

 

Hearing the uncertainty in Peter’s voice, Deadpool slid one hand up the boy’s back, to his nape. His spine was adorably knobby. He needed fattening up and, if this thing between them didn’t implode immediately or in the very near future, Deadpool would be sure to feed his spider up good. Pancakes every morning and tacos every night.

 

[Unless he really _does_ eat flies or something,] White whispered like a true buzzkill.

 

{Oh, shut your cake-hole, Eeyore! We’ve _seen_ Spidey eat human food plenty after we patrol, five nights out of ten. Don’t be gross.}

 

With that weirdly un-Yellow-like admonition, surprisingly both Boxes subsided.

 

“Not gonna be changing my mind, Baby Boy,” Deadpool swore hoarsely, around a throat full of trapped emotions. “You don’t have to worry about that. But if you change yours. . . .” _I won’t hold it against you_ , Deadpool was going to finish, but couldn’t get the words out past that knot of feelings.

 

Suddenly, Peter’s lucent, emotive eyes were gazing into Deadpool’s . . . lovely in their complete lack of artifice.

 

“I’m notoriously stubborn. I think you’ll find that once I’ve had you . . . I’ll have a real problem with letting you go. Like . . . _ever_ ,” Peter added, his fine, dark brows drawing together briefly. Then he was kissing Deadpool again before he could respond.

 

Peter shoved and shimmied his spandex pants down, then pinned Deadpool’s hands by his side as he ground and thrusted, slow and hard and steady against Deadpool’s own leaking, slippery cock. Very shortly, they were both moaning and panting into each other’s mouths raggedly. Peter was shaking in a way Deadpool felt in his _bones_ , and recognized intimately.

 

“Don’t . . . don’t come yet, Petey,” Deadpool pleaded, eyes squinched shut as he tried to gain some semblance of self-control. “Not ‘til . . . oh, _fuck_ , not ‘til you’re in me so deep, your cockhead is bumping my epiglottis.”

 

Peter gave one last shiver . . . then got himself under control, somehow, and nuzzled Deadpool’s cheek, the tip of his pert, pixie-nose as cool as his hands were feverishly hot. “Yeah. ‘Kay. Gonna save it _all_ for _you_ , sweetheart—gonna fill you up till I pass out.”

 

Deadpool bucked up against Peter reflexively, wrists straining in that unbreakable grasp. “ _Please_ tell me you have slick nearby . . . though I’d take you dry as the Sahara, Baby Boy, just to have you in me.”

 

“No worries. I have lube. Believe me,” Peter chuckled a bit self-mockingly. “I have _plenty_ of lube.”

 

Then he was freeing Deadpool’s left hand to reach for his night table. Deadpool felt a flash of jealousy and spoke before he thought to censor himself. Not that he ever did, really.

 

“Get a lotta ass, do ya? Not surprising, with a face like yours. I'll bet you're beatin' tail off with a stick.”

 

“Actually, I'm not. But I, uh . . . spend a lot of time with Rosy Palm and her five sisters. Ah!” Peter found the tube—it was _big_ . . . like, CostCo- or medical grade-big . . . and Deadpool remembered Peter _had_ said he was a scientist. So he no doubt had access to a lot of interesting things in uncommonly large quantities—and turned back to Deadpool, his eyes twinkling merrily.

 

“And I’ve never brought _anyone_ here. At least not like _this_.” He ground down against Deadpool again to demonstrate what he meant and Deadpool’s eyes did their best to roll up into his head. “I . . . don’t do casual sex. I never have.”

 

Something with the way Peter said that made Deadpool force open his eyes to stare at the boy _hard_ for nearly a minute.

 

“Peter . . . is this . . . are _you_. . . ?” But Deadpool already knew the answer to his question, even as Peter turned scarlet and looked down. Deadpool thought his heart might break. “Baby Boy . . . your first time should be _special_.” _Not with some scarred up merc whose face would make Jesus drink himself to sleep._

 

When Peter looked up, he was still scarlet. Yet his smile was calm, fond, and patient, as if Deadpool was being an idiot, but an adorable one. “It will be, Wade,” was all he said, and flicked open the cap on the tube of slick. He sat up, kneeling between Deadpool’s legs again then pulling those legs over his own thighs. He squirted a generous amount of the slick on his index and middle fingers, still smiling at Deadpool, who watched Peter with dazed bemusement. Then he was moaning and groaning, bucking and _fucking_ his way onto Peter’s insistent, scissoring fingers, pleasure and pain warring for dominance in his hot, overwhelmed body. He hissed, muscles clenching around Peter’s clever, squirming digits, trying their damnedest to keep him for as long as possible.

 

Peter’s lush lips pressed themselves to Deadpool’s chest, even as his fingers sought out Deadpool’s spot—then _found_ it with eerie, unerring speed. Wave after wave of sweet, dirty _bliss_ washed over a gasping Deadpool as Peter continued to press lingering kisses over his heart like a promise. . . .

 

“It will be.”

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> Hollaback, y'all! And [follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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